


The Case of The Broken Bed

by WriterOfSmut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Changing Room, Clothes, Clothing, Eloping, Floor Sex, M/M, Marriage, Public Blow Jobs, Purple, Reminiscing, Sex, Shopping, bed, broken furniture, drainpipes, proposal, sex in public, skinny jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8106739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterOfSmut/pseuds/WriterOfSmut
Summary: John and Sherlock have gone and broken their bed - again.  Now, they've got to go shopping for a new one before properly breaking it in. But, finding just the right bed proves to be more challenging than they might've thought.





	

As John and Sherlock meandered through the bed department of McLelland's, they looked for a nice sturdy bed frame.

Most of the ones they'd looked at so far were cheaply made, and wouldn't be worth the money the shop was asking.

"Can I 'elp you, gentlemen?" A small middle aged woman inquired, shoving her thick glasses up her nose.

"No." Sherlock answered bluntly, as John told her they were looking for a heavy-duty frame.

"I see, would this be fer a larger person or yerself?" She asked nosily, and Sherlock looked annoyed.

John blinked, a little put off by the query; there was no need to ask if it was for a larger person at all, nor if it was for him or for Sherlock, or anyone else.

The point of the thing was that they needed a sturdy frame.

"Myself." John answered, and the woman raised her brows.

"Really, now, ya don't need anythin' more than one of our normal models. Yer light enough that any of these would do ya just fine, love." The associate told him, gesturing to a simple iron one. "This 'ere's one of our best sellers, by the way. Adjustable."

"Does this shop sell reinforced frames, or doesn't it?" Sherlock interjected, terribly bored.

The associate, whose name was 'Ruth', going by the tag pinned to her obnoxiously yellow blouse, shuffled on her feet in an annoyed fashion.

"We do, yeah, but they're expensive..." Ruth answered. "I really think ya should just buy one of our normal models."

It was obvious she thought that John didn't have much money, that she'd judged him on his old jeans, worn trainers, and plain t-shirt. 

"As I've already told you, I am looking for a heavy-duty bed, now are you going to show me some or do I start looking elsewhere for one?" John asked her, crossing his arms.

Ruth didn't understand. "I really think that one of these'd do ya fine..."

"Yes, well, we've already had three 'normal' frames break right in the middle of a good fuck, and it's starting to get expensive. Which is why we need something a bit more substantial." John replied, losing his patience with the woman, who genuflected. "Since you have no interest in making a sale, we'll be leaving now."

Sherlock couldn't help but grin at this; he loved it when John was on the brink of losing his temper and said whatever might be on his mind.

Some of the things he would say...

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and guided him out of the store at a quick pace, grumbling the entire time about what an idiot that woman was.

"Any time you want to unhand me, John." Sherlock told him after a few blocks, and John stopped.

Blinking, he let go. "Sorry, I'd sort of forgotten I was even hanging onto you." He said with a hint of embarrassment.

Sherlock gazed down at John, the frustrated energy which had been building and now was finally at a head nearly crackled in the air.

John certainly was the intense sort, and that was part of what Sherlock loved so much about him.

"Let's take a detour." Sherlock suggested, walking into a clothing store.

John frowned, wondering what Sherlock wanted from a place like this; the clientele that this shop catered to was of the goth punk variety.

The young man wearing white foudation and heavy black liner with red lipstick at the till stared a bit, not used to seeing people like them come in.

Sherlock perused a rack of drainpipes, picking out a couple. "Try these on." 

John's eyes went wide. "What? I'm not putting those things on!" He scoffed in derision.

Sherlock contorted his face into an expression similar to a kicked puppy.

"No." John said, shaking his head. "You do realise how tight those would be, don't you? I didn't like them when they were popular back when I was a teen, and I might like them even less now."

"Stop making a fuss and put them on." Sherlock replied, chucking them at John, who caught them.

"Not happening." John stated, putting them back on the rack.

Sherlock half-smiled. "Fine." He said, showing him a pair of baggy black jeans that had numerous silver chains wrapped around them.

John laughed. "Yeah, I'm not sure they're quite my style." 

Sherlock put them back, flipping through the selection and taking out a pair or dark purple pinstriped drainpipes.

"If you don't want to indulge me, then I'll go ahead and try something on for myself." He told John, heading to the changing rooms. "You can tell me what you think."

John hadn't expected this at all. 

He could just imagine Sherlock in those skintight trousers...   
Okay, perhaps he might reconsider his opinion of drainpipes after all.

John followed after, watching as Sherlock disappeared into a corner changing room.

 

A few minutes later, Sherlock peeped his curly head out the door.

"Come here." He told John, who raised a brow.

"Are you feeling a shade self-conscious, Sherlock?" He teased, turned on at the idea of seeing Sherlock in those things and growing impatient.

"Come here, John." Sherlock repeated himself, reaching a hand out and beckoning.

John rolled his eyes, and went over.

Sherlock glanced around, and satisfied that nobody was paying them any notice, he grabbed hold of John and pulled him inside before locking the door.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, do you have any idea what they're going to think?" John asked in a whisper, shocked at this behaviour.

But, his worry didn't last long as he took in the sight of Sherlock; wearing only the drainpipes, which hugged his body in a way that made John let out a soft groan, Sherlock ran a hand over his leg.

"Yes, they are rather striking, aren't they?" Sherlock asked teasingly, moving his hips and pretending to test them out.

He bent down, displaying his arse to John.

John inhaled sharply as there was a strong stir in his pants.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, unable to keep from staring.

Sherlock looked amazing, and he knew it.

Sherlock straightened up, looking at John with a hint of playful amusement.

He closed the small gap between them, leaning down and pressing his lips to John's.

Sherlock's tongue found its way into John's mouth, while his hands slid down John's chest and down to the hard lump in those old jeans.

John kissed Sherlock more passionately to keep from making a sound as those long fingers deftly undid the jeans and slipped around John's cock.

John broke the kiss, trying to clear his head. "We're going to end up in trouble." He warned, not wanting to be caught having sex in a goth shop's changing room. 

It would be scandalous!

Sherlock dipped down for a quick kiss. "Quite possibly." 

He then went down on his knees and swirled his tongue around the head of John's cock as he massaged the velvet soft bollocks.

John leaned against the wall of the small cubical, trying to keep his knees from buckling as Sherlock suddenly took his entire length into his mouth and down his throat.

John shut his eyes as Sherlock worked his way up and down with enthusiasm.

John could swear that Sherlock was doing his utmost to give him the most intense blowjob of his life in order to coax those animalistic noises out of him.

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes as he nearly let John slip out of his mouth, sucking at the tip.

John cursed beneath his breath, his balls beginning to tighten.

Sherlock stared into John's very soul as he wrapped a hand around John's throbbing member and opened his mouth to recieve his reward.

John's view was impeccable, and the very sight of Sherlock before him like this was nearly enough to make him burst.

Sherlock gripped him tightly and stroked John ever so slowly to the point that it was on the verge of agonising.

John made a quiet whimper, and Sherlock looked very pleased.

He quickened the pace a bit, then a bit more, and it became too much; John exploded into Sherlock's mouth, the intoxicating spasms so extreme that he was panting to keep from crying out.

Sherlock waited patiently for John to recover, putting on his shirt.

"I do believe I'll buy these." He decided, checking himself out in the mirror.

John put himself away, wiping the sweat from his brow and tying very much not to look as if he'd just had the blowjob of his life.

He would never have expected it, but the risk involved when it came to sex in a public place had made the experience even hotter.

Sherlock smiled, kissed John, and walked confidently out of the change room.

 

No notice had been taken, what with a surge of customers having come in and keeping the sales associate busy.

Sherlock paid for his drainpipes, taking a bag for his original trousers, and they had left with Joh doing his best to act non-chalant.

 

From there, they had gone to a shop specialising solely in beds and bedroom accessories.

They had been attended to by a tall elderly woman who was both knowledgeable and to the point; she had shown them straight to what they had been looking for, and within ten minutes John and Sherlock had chosen a steel and pine bed frame, paid for it, and had arranged its delivery.

Unfortunately, it would have to arrive the next day.

As John and Sherlock wandered along the street, having decided to have dinner at Angelo's, the sun began to sink behind the buildings to their left.

"You do realise that we're going to have to share your old bed tonight, don't you?" Sherlock asked, thinking it was going to be a long night.

Sherlock was not a sound sleeper; rather, he tossed and turned, kicked and flug his long arms and legs about, and mumbled in his sleep.

Which, in a king-sized bed was tolerable.

John could get far enough away to be safe from Sherlock's energetic sleeping.  
Far enough away that Sherlock's sleep-softened words weren't murmered into John's ears as he tried to slumber.

But, in a single sized bed...   
John had only suffered that twice and swore never to do it again.

"You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the couch." Sherlock told him, reading John like a book.

"You're too tall for the couch to lie flat out." John stated, not wanting Sherlock to be uncomfortable.

"So?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow. "Before I moved in with you, that couch was what I'd slept on most nights. I didn't have a bed."

John hadn't known this, yet somehow he wasn't altogether surprised. "Fine, sleep on the couch, then." He replied with a shrug, knowing better than to argue.

He wouldn't win.

"I will." Sherlock told him.

 

Upon entering Angelo's fine establishment, they were greeted personally by the owner who was happy to see them.

A candle was placed in the center of the table for that added romantic atmosphere, and Angelo saw to their orders immediately.

As John took a swallow of his ice water, he felt a foot slide up his leg.

Sherlock acted as if he didn't know the faintest about it, replying to some text or other from Mycroft which he'd gnored earlier.

John wondered what Sherlock was playing at. First the clothing shop, now this.  
What was he trying to do to him?

Still, John didn't move away. But, he tried not to react to it either.

He cleared his throat, setting his glass back down.

It wasn't too long before their meals arrived, fresh from the oven.

 

The lasagna was particularly good that night, and even Sherlock ate heartily.

After the meal, John had expected to go home.

Instead, Sherlock had taken him to the very same place that they had met at St. Bart's.

He walked around the room, recalling that day with ease; how confounded John had been with him, how unopened John's eyes had been, how alone he could tell John was.

John looked around, that fated day returning to him as well.

Sherlock turned to John, a strange look on his face.

John watched him, waiting for an explanation for leading him here.

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and knelt before John in an awkward sort of way.

He looked up into John's eyes, nervousness tingling within him.

John watched in silence, his heart thumping in his chest excitedly.

"John, I love you more than I have loved anyone or anything in this lifetime." He began, choosing his words carefully. "You are all I want. All that I need."

He brought out a small black box, opening it to reveal a simple silver band with a medium-sized diamond embedded in it.

"I want you to be mine for as long as we're in this world. And, to be yours in return." Sherlock went on, feeling exposed.

Not that he kept up much of a wall when it came to John, but still... This was far more than he had ever done before, and it was miles outside of his comfort zone.

John understood how difficult this must have been for Sherlock, and felt more in love with him than ever as he listened to those honest words which bared Sherlock's innermost sentiment for him.

"Would you do me the honour of being my husband?" Sherlock asked in such a way that made it seem as if he would break if John declined.

"Of course, I will." John answered softly, knowing that he would remember these moments for eternity. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, as if he'd thought that John might have actually said no.

He placed the ring on John's finger - it fit perfectly.

John pulled him to his feet, kissing him languidly.

That slow, sweet kiss transformed into something wilder.

"We can't, not here." John said, not willing to be caught somewhere they frequented.

Especially considering that chances are if anyone were to catch them, it would be Molly, and that would be beyond humiliating.

"You're absolutely right." Sherlock replied. "It's too cold in here."

John laughed, kissing Sherlock. "Right, too cold." He agreed.

Sherlock smiled, running a hand through John's soft hair.

"You know, I can't believe you actually just proposed to me. And, so romantically, too." John stated, still reeling a bit. "I always figured that if we were to marry, I'd be the one doing the asking."

Sherlock chuckled. "As did I." He admitted, still feeling a hint jittery.

It hadn't been something that Sherlock had given lengthy thought to.

In fact, it had only been a few days ago that he had been going past a jewellery store when the notion had popped into his head; he had gone in, found just the right ring, and had been carrying it around until it had felt right.

He hadn't planned on bringing John here.  
It had simply happened.

"Come on, I think it's time we went home." John told him, very happy but also very tired.

 

As it turned out, Sherlock hadn't spent the night on the couch.

Neither did he sleep in his old bed. Rather, he and John had spent the night cuddled up to one another in a nest of blankets on the floor.

Had their bed not been skewered by the frame when it had broken the last time, forcing springs up through the gash in the fabric, they'd have been able to make do by having the mattress right on the floor. 

The makeshift bed was quite cosy, actually, and they'd easily drifted into sleep in one another's arms.

Back at St. Bart's, they had been more than ready to practically tear one another's clothes off and become one in that cold, dark room. But, after returning home and making their little nest, it had been enough to simply be near to one another.

It was intimate in a wonderful way, and they felt a closeness in those moments that enveloped them entirely.

 

As the night wore on, with it being late summer and still rather warm, the closeness soon grew sticky and uncomfortable, and they'd moved away from each other.

Which was just as well, with Sherlock's vigorous sleeping habits.

John had still awoken in the morning with a large bruise on his calf after Sherlock had kicked out after grumbling crankily about 'butterflies' shortly after three in the morning.

John had been awake for a couple of hours before Sherlock's eyes fluttered open.

As Sherlock yawned, stretching his long arms, John examined his fresh bruise.

It was quite tender, and was about the size of Sherlock's big foot. 

"Have you considered tranquilizers to help you sleep less exuberantly?" John asked almost tetchily, tired of waking up with new bruises and sore spots.

Sherlock eyed the dark blue patch guiltily, and John's face softened.

"It looks worse than it is." He lied, though it was pointless.

He moved close to Sherlock, snuggling in. "It's only a bruise." He told Sherlock gently, wanting to quell any guilty feelings. "Besides, I knew what I was getting into."

Sherlock rolled onto his side, looking into John's eyes.

Why did this man care so much for him? He knew he was a pompous arse, and a difficult one at that. And, yet, John adored him despite these faults.

"What?" John asked, knowing that pensieve look all too well.

Sherlock put an arm around John, embracing him as he considered how fortunate he was to have John in his life.

How he'd managed before John, he wasn't entirely sure.

Being alone was something that he'd conditioned himself to, resigned himself to being for the remainder of his life as Mycroft had helped him to do.

But, now that he had John, he couldn't properly manage without him.

The two years that he had spent away from John had been long and far more difficult than he would ever admit to. He couldn't imagine being without him permanantly.

He held John close, wanting to have this moment forever. Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, drinking in the scent of his all-natural lavendar and almond shampoo.

"I love you, John. More than I can tell you." Sherlock murmured, his eyes closed.

John traced patterns onto the sensitive skin of Sherlock's hip. "I love you, too." He replied, kissing Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock focused on what John's fingers were doing, goosebumps peppering his alabaster skin.

John moved his hand to Sherlock's chest, pressing just enough to have Sherlock lay flat on his back.

John straddled Sherlock's hips, letting his hands liesurely tour the firm torso.

He bent down, taking a pert nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pink nub, giving a suck. He felt the stirring between Sherlock's legs in response to his actions, and John continued on.

John took his time, making Sherlock beg for more than this.

When Sherlock's gentle requests turned into fervent pleas, John moved down Sherlock's engorged cock.

He realised that there wasn't any lube nearby, and so he dashed to their room, his erection bobbing along in front of him.

John grabbed the black bottle of strawberry lubricant and made his way back to Sherlock.

He settled himself above Sherlock, a leg on either side of his body.

John sat just above Sherlock's appendage, leaning over and tasting his mouth again.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed with lust, wanting John badly.

John took in the sight of Sherlock craving him like this, taking a bit of lube and wetting his tight hole.

He positioned himself just right, feeling the tip of Sherlock's rigid cock at his entrance. John slowly eased down, gliding along Sherlock's length unhurriedly, as if he didn't need release as badly as his lover did.

He bit his lip, the feeling of Sherlock filling him making him let out a soft moan, which in turn nearly made Sherlock come right then.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock bucked his hips, the remainder of his length disappearing into John.

John's eyes popped open in surprise.

Sherlock usually let him lead, keeping himself controlled and somewhat inhibited.

It had taken months before John had been able to convince Sherlock that it was okay to make noise during sex, and even longer before Sherlock had taken the lead.

Sherlock noted the delight on John's face, and gripped John's hips to change their position so that he John was on his back.

He placed an arm on either side of John's shoulders, wasting no time; he pumped in and out of John so energetically that John was losing his breath.

Sherlock had never been so rough, and John found himself loving it.

He let out a gruff moan as Sherlock hit his prostate, the pressure on his cock which was trapped between their bodies making it all the more intense.

John felt Sherlock's bollocks slapping against his perineum, felt Sherlock's breath come in bursts against his skin.

The panting, the animalistic noises, the sound of skin snapping against skin, the smell of their bodies and sweat... It was intoxicating.

John clenched the blanket beneath them in his fists as he saw stars; the wild torrent of release ripped through him, and he came with a choked grunt, spurting his hot seed all over their abdomens.

Sherlock wasn't far behind, gasping as he bucked his hips a few more times while his own orgasm flooded him with the closest thing to perfection he had ever experienced.

He slipped out of John, beads of sweat dripping down his face.

Exhausted, they fell asleep in the mess they'd made.

 

Later that day, after they had cleaned themselves up, and had taken care of their little love nest on the floor, their new bed had been delivered.

They'd decided on the next size up from their old bed, thinking that the extra space would be grand.

While John had made the bed, Sherlock had gone out for a while.

It was a good couple of hours before Sherlock had come back with two bags of groceries and a cardboard box.

Sherlock had put away the groceries, John reading in the den.

He had covertly placed a few things into the box, which he had taken into their bedroom.

John's curiosity was piqued.

He followed Sherlock into their room, watching as he set down the box beside the bed.

"What's that?" He asked, looking at the bag.

"Never you mind." Sherlock answered, leaving the room and gesturing for John to follow suit, closing the door behind them.

 

John had wondered for the next few hours what it was that Sherlock was hiding, distracted enough to nearly slice his finger along with the carrot he was chopping for the fried rice he was making.

As they had dinner, John kept looking at his engagement ring with a faraway look on his face.

He hadn't expected to marry again, and John's thoughts had turned to their pending wedding.

Who would come to their wedding? They hadn't officially come out as a couple, Sherlock feeling that they might end up with unwanted publicity (not that Sherlock cared a fig what anyone might think, but John was more sensitive, and besides it might make them a target for violent bigots) and so he hadn't entrusted their secret with anyone other than Mycroft who had surmised it long ago.

What would they wear? Matching tuxedos, or something a bit more personalised?

Would it be a fancy affair, or a simple one?

His head swam, actually looking forward to the wedding fuss.

Sherlock had actually finished supper before him, which was unheard of.

 

That evening was filled with sexual delights the likes of which they'd not indulged in before; Sherlock had brought home an entire box of fun. Vibrators, ticklers, dildos in various shapes and sizes, feathers, peppermint oil, nipple clamps, cock rings... He'd chosen an impressive range for what had fit inside that box.  
Plus, there was the honey, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and a bottle of absinthe just to make things interesting.

They'd never introduced such items into their sex life before, and it wasn't as if their lovemaking had become dull. On the contrary, John and Sherlock had continued to surprise themselves with how good it was.  
Rather, Sherlock had wanted to celebrate their engagement with something special and new; this seemed to fit the bill well enough.

And, despite John's hesitance at first, he had easily relented with a few carefully chosen words from Sherlock which had enticed him completely.

It had been incredible, and Sherlock was pleased with himself.

By the end of it, they were barely able to manage a quick shower before powering down for the night.

 

The next day, after interviewing a potential case involving the theft of a rare pedigreed canine belonging to a French duke, Sherlock looked at John in consideration, hands pressed together against his lips.

"Let's get married." Sherlock told him simply.

"That is generally what people do after getting engaged." John teased, sitting down after having let their potential client out of the flat.

Sherlock frowned. "No, John, I mean it; let's get married. Now." He lowered his hands, folding them between his spread knees. "We can go anywhere you like; honeymoon in Africa, Venice, Sweden..."

John blinked, thinking that this was all rather sudden. "I, uh - Well, that is to say..." He cleared his throat, Sherlock's idea seeming perfect to him. "You know what? Let's do it. Let's get married!"

Sherlock beamed, looking even more excited than whenever a murder would crop up after a long pause between cases.

John chuckled happily, feeling like a lovestruck teenager. Everything was wonderful!

 

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Right, put your shoes on. We'll leave straightaway." He grabbed his jacket, slipping it on.

"What about packing a bag?" John asked, thinking Sherlock was being perhaps a bit too impetuous.

"Unnecessary; when the need for clothing arises, we'll buy some." Sherlock told him, bringing John's shoes to him.

John laughed, and Sherlock grinned.

"You really are tremendously sexy when you laugh." Sherlock said, leaning in and kissing John. "Now, put your shoes on."

John did so, and Sherlock held the front door open for John.

And, with that, John and Sherlock left to begin their life as a married couple.


End file.
